Seven Years
by ShiningMoon
Summary: Short scenes serving as glimpses into the lives of Vegeta and those close to him during the time between Cell and Buu, primarily focusing on Vegeta's relationship with his family.
1. Thunderstorm

NOTE: So, I don't know exactly what all I'm doing with this, but these seven years are definitely way under-appreciated in the fanfiction world, from what I've seen, so I thought I'd try to tackle them. I hope you enjoy the journey with me. These will probably be all more or less short "stand-alone" pieces, so don't expect too much chapter-to-chapter continuity.

Please leave me your thoughts! They are very helpful to me, both in motivating me and helping me figure out what I need to do with the story. 

...

The door rattled open and Bulma glanced up from her glass, swirling its contents absently as she watched him enter. "Hey," she mumbled, "didn't know you'd be coming back here."

He shrugged, tossing his rain-soaked jacket over the couch. He'd been back once since then—where else would he have gotten the jacket?—but supposed Bulma hadn't known. It had been a short trip, and he'd been absent for some time since—more than a few days, but he hadn't counted. With the miserable and pervasive rain, differentiating between day and night had been tougher, and it had been easy to sleep through the daytime. Bitterly he wondered if the Earth was weeping for the same pathetic reason that he was back at Bulma's, peeling his wet gloves off, waiting for the woman to continue speaking. She didn't—glanced back down at her glass, swirled it a few more times, took a drink. He watched her intense interest in the way the waves abated as she held it still. "You'd know if I'd gone," he finally spoke. "You'd be missing a spaceship."

"Mm," she nodded, now fishing through a cabinet for another glass. "So are you going back?"

"Back where?" His fingers were cold, but quickly warming. He was certain there was an extra pair of gloves lying around here, somewhere.

"You know. To space."

His eyes bored into her. "You talk about it like it's a place to be."

"Well..."

"All space is, is in-between time. Between one place and another. Best slept through," he muttered.

"I guess," she shrugged. In her mind, Vegeta, this alien, lived anywhere that wasn't Earth. He'd never been at home here—just biding time. She assumed that sooner or later, he'd be leaving, to wherever his home was. There was a faint whining from the next room, but neither did anything more than glance in its direction. "So are you staying?"

"You sound surprised. You think I have someplace to go?" his voice grew loud along with that of the child in the other room. "Now?"

She bit her lip, and after a moment's pause redirected the conversation. "Where were you?"

"Doesn't matter," Normally he wouldn't have put up with such inane questions—but what else was there to do? The way she swirled her glass was hypnotizing, and he could feel vicariously the warmth of the alcohol as it slid down her throat. Being back inside reminded him of how much the rain had chilled him. He used the nearest cloth—Bulma's jacket, hanging near the door—to dry his skin, and she frowned at him, but said nothing.

She ducked around the corner and returned with both glasses full, stepping closer to Vegeta and holding one out to him. He took it quickly, and watched her carefully as she drank it, copying her.

"You gonna help me take care of Trunks?" she tried not to sound too hopeful. She'd not expected Vegeta to stick around even when she decided to keep the child, but now, well—if he was going to be here anyway—maybe—

"Yes." His answer was surprisingly resolute. There was a quiver beneath it, and she was certain she knew why. "I will train him."

Resounding silence ensued, and Vegeta emptied his glass with speed. He held it out to Bulma, who took it and refilled it. She leaned back against the counter, and Vegeta reclined against the wall on the opposite side of the room. The prince heard a quiet noise from the woman, and he wasn't sure if it was her choking on her drink, or something else. There was babbling from the baby in the other room, approximating the tempo of the rain as it struck the windows. Vegeta's reverie was broken at the sound of shattering glass, and his eyes snapped to Bulma. Bits of her glass chimed against the floor as they slid from the counter, and the wine dripped from her hand and from what of the glass remained. "I can't believe Son!" she blurted, and swatted the stem and base of the glass across the room. It clinked against the nearest chair pathetically, and rolled along the ground. He was surprised the words hadn't come from his own mouth, short of her Earthling name for the man. "Like anyone buys his '_for the good of the Earth_' bullshit! I've known that kid since he was twelve, and you know what? If you told 'im some strong guy would show up if he stood still in the middle of the forest for a year, he'd do it! Like _hell_ he left so that people that he could _fight _would stop coming to Earth!" She took a deep, rattling breath, eyes blinded with anger as she looked through Vegeta. "Guess we're not good enough for him, guess he just couldn't wait to go to Heaven."

"Guess we're not good enough for him," Vegeta repeated, so quietly that Bulma wasn't sure if she'd heard it. He looked up at her and raised his voice as he continued, "What's it matter to you?"

Bulma crossed her arms tightly against her chest, glaring at him. "What, so the fact that I _found _him doesn't matter? That we were _friends_?" she seemed to lose her steam as her gut dropped. "Hell, he never cared. We didn't see each other so often, and maybe it was partly my fault, but—shit—" She locked eyes with Vegeta and breathed again, bracing herself to start anew, slowing her mind to the pace of her tongue so that she could make more sense. "He was such a kid. I got in way over my head, he pulled through—no matter how much danger he got us in as he did. He went off to train, he came back a better fighter. He left again, same thing. Then, once, he came back a man," she glanced down, "ran off the same day with Chi-Chi, not the slightest idea what he was getting into. I never had a chance, anyway."

"You..." he began, "you wanted..."

"Guess I'll never know," she kicked at the glass nearest her foot, "and I try not to think about it." Bulma huffed and turned away. "I always go for the stupid men. Everybody who'd leave me at the drop of a hat. Son would be the same."

Vegeta seemed affronted by the comparison, snarling. "I'm still here," it came out more of a whimper than he'd wanted, but Bulma didn't seem to hear it.

"He always goes after his own thing," she leaned back, resigned. "Well, whatever. Maybe he really is too good for us."

Vegeta's jaw quivered as an idea seemed to strike him, and he took a step forward. "Hit me," he voice was carefully neutral. Bulma glanced up, raising her eyebrows. "All I wanted was another fight," he seethed. "To defeat him as I should have the first time." He may have been shivering; Bulma couldn't tell. He seemed to have dried off, but perhaps he was still cold. If it was rage rippling through him, well—she feared it. "Now, I'll never have it."

She opened her mouth to argue, but saw the desperation in his eyes, and braced herself. "All right, but..." he inclined his head slightly and let his eyelids slide closed. She hopped over the broken glass and took a run at him, pulling her fist back and letting it strike his abdomen. He didn't move to block it—or her next strike, or her next, awkward as they were. She felt his muscles react beneath her hands, twitching and hardening as he so easily withstood what blows she managed. As Bulma pulled back to lunge at Vegeta again, he grabbed her fists and pulled her closer, holding her against him. They'd been in close contact like this a few times—Trunks was evidence enough. But off and on as Vegeta trained, most of their contact had been in the form of arguments. Once, they had laid in the same bed together for the entire night after one heated argument brought heat elsewhere. The closeness and quiet with Vegeta had been heart-stilling, and she suspected he had been just as afraid of the calmness they had felt in those hours as she was; they avoided each other for weeks afterward.

His hands continued to grip her fists and she leaned in against him. He tilted his head forward, and she was worried it would be a painful headbutt—but his brow stopped gently against hers. Vegeta's eyes were still closed, and he drew in a breath through his teeth. "Is that all you can do?" he managed to hiss out, fists tightening around Bulma's. She swore at the pain, but her arms could not struggle against Vegeta's, so she swung her leg up to kick his shin. His surprise was enough to let her jerk her fists loose, and his lips pulled back over his teeth in what her pounding heart could not discount as being either anger or hunger. "Hit me again."

Bulma hopped up onto the counter, not sure of what to do next. She'd never seen Vegeta in such a state—not that she'd claim to have seen him enough to have expected to. It surely wasn't alcohol-induced, and his eyes weren't on her. Maybe hers weren't on him, either. As he came closer, his bare foot pressed against the broken glass, and he winced, pausing mid-stride. Bulma hopped from the counter, nearby glass crunching beneath her boots as she landed. "Here," she muttered, directing him to the table, and after she pressed hard enough against his shoulders he cooperated and sat, eyes following her carefully as he awaited her next move. "Just wait a second." She turned on her toes and left, slipping out of her glass-coated boots just before pacing onto the carpeted area, returning after a moment with a small bag. Biting her lip, she carefully pulled the shards from the prince's foot with a pair of tweezers from the bag. He leaned back against the chair, resigned. He felt her lay some material against his forefoot, pressing it and pulling it off slowly, and winced when she poured alcohol over the cuts, shivering a little at the comfort of so shamelessly expressing his pain when a whimper escaped his lips. His breath softened to a hum as she rubbed some ointment against him, and then Bulma began wrapping something around his foot—bandages, he decided, eyes still closed. His blood crept through the cloth, barely staining the outside layer. As her hands laid against his foot, he thought, briefly—they had never been so close. It was nice—it was bearable. He looked up just in time to see her licking a smudge of his blood from her knuckle. There was fight in her eyes still; passion which had left him laid within her. He leaned down to look at her closer. She was a stranger, but more familiar than most he'd ever known. It was odd, being here with her and having nothing to argue about. "It keeps raining," she finally spoke.

"I noticed."

Lightning crackled past the window in the next room, and when the thunder boomed moments later, baby Trunks began bawling from his crib. More distant lightning danced behind it, and its rumbling followed after some time. "Guess the sky's mad at him, too."

"Poetic bullshit," he muttered, still close to her. She turned her attention from the window and came nose-to-nose with Vegeta as her head twisted back to him. From the corner of her eye, she saw his toes wriggle as his foot tested the limits of the bandage. She supposed it was the first time he'd ever been fully conscious when she'd patched him up. She'd preferred it that way, anyway; no need for him to see the way she'd looked over him as she'd done so, pondering the minor differences of the Saiyajin physiology. Of course, she'd had other opportunities to do so as time went on, but tried to avoid thinking too much on it at those times. There was no advantage to him finding out that the first time, she'd grown bored of his novice fumbling; and anyway, he improved fast enough that she gave him a second chance. Even she wasn't brash enough to question him directly about whether he'd ever had sex with anyone before. It was some comfort to think that with Goku, it might have been worse— "That moron," he muttered, and she blushed as if he'd heard her thoughts; she was sure they'd been thinking about the same person. "If he were the Saiyajin he was supposed to be, I could fight him in Hell."

She bit her lip. "Well, I'd be dead for sure, if he killed us like he was supposed to."

He looked into her eyes carefully, wondering if it mattered which words he chose. Could she make his life more miserable if he spoke the wrong ones? But what did he owe her, anyway? "I'd rather fight him than fuck you."

Bulma leapt to her feet, and remembered at the last moment the glass behind her, stepping to the side in case Vegeta stood too, to shove her backwards. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. "Funny," her face grew hot with anger, "I think I'd rather fuck him than fight you!" And she knew she was right to move to the side, for in moments she was stumbling backwards as he stood, towering over her despite their similar heights.

"Seems we're both out of luck," Vegeta rumbled, thunder echoing through the sky to back him up. "So you'll just have to do your worst." He leapt back in surprise as she stomped on his injured foot and shoved his torso with both hands. Vegeta found himself with his lower back pressed against the table, and Bulma ran at him, hesitating as she neared and tried to best position her hand to strike his abdomen. Finally, she settled on stepping onto both of his feet and leaning over, forcing him to lean back until his hair brushed the tabletop. Her fingers locked around his arms and she used her legs to brace herself higher up on his body, pressing her cheek against his before biting his ear. His hands snapped to her sides and prepared to throw her off of him, but he stopped when her mouth moved to his, drinking him up with the kind of passion he'd hoped to defeat his rival with, unrelenting and drawn from the pit of his stomach. Vegeta jerked his head back so that their mouths broke apart, smirking a little. "It seems to me you want me more than you thought," he challenged.

"Speak for yourself," she shifted her weight so that her midsection pressed against a conspicuous bulge.

He sneered, and a short hiss escaped through his teeth. "Nonsense. I was thinking about—"

"Yeah," she carefully removed her necklace, and his brows twitched as he realized what she was saying. As he stood still in thought, she paused with her shirt over her head. "Well, are we, or aren't we?" She made as if to pull the shirt back onto her body, and Vegeta grabbed her arms to stop her.

"Yes," he answered, more loudly than he meant to.

"It's a good enough distraction, right?" she tossed the shirt carefully to the opposite side of the room, where it would collect no glass shards, and went to work on her bra.

"Good enough," he answered gruffly. And that, he supposed, was what most of his life was going to be. The baby whined from the other room, and he let its cry settle into his bones. At least there was that—at least there was the boy. And at least there was her, the woman perched atop him, sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. It rained outside, and that was good enough for the Earth. But thunder rumbled through his chest and he knew he had a quiet contract with the phrase—"for now."


	2. Blue

NOTE: Thanks to everyone who's expressed interest in this story. I was really surprised, and I'm happy you liked the first chapter. Say, those of you who added it to your alerts/etc.: you know you really want to leave me a comment this time, right? They serve three purposes. Most importantly, they help me improve. They also help motivate me. Finally, they make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside (even serious critiques...d'aw!). You should definitely do it. Unless you don't want to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Psh. (But many thanks to those of you who _did _make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside after I wrote the first chapter.)

I kind of struggled with what to put in this chapter. I don't want to overload things or get them going too quickly, but I also don't want to forget everything or glaze over something important that I think is obvious to everyone, but actually isn't! Also, please keep in mind that this fic is supposed to be more or less a series of "snapshots." I hope the occasional [much smaller than the one Toriyama gave us] time gaps are not too unpleasant. I try to fill in the details subtly. ;)

For more of Vegeta's thoughts about how future Trunks affects his experience with present Trunks, see my drabble "Paradigm." I don't want to repeat myself so I tried to leave most of it out of here. (That one also takes place later...anyway.)

...

She rolled over, and was still surprised to find Vegeta there. For some weeks now, he'd taken to staying in bed with her anytime they ended up having sex at night. Her mother, once she found out about it, decided it was cute; Bulma couldn't get past the strangeness of it. They rarely spoke—some sort of silence had fallen over Vegeta, and unlike the time before he fought Cell, when he had first ascended and strutted about unabashedly, the man seemed constantly pensive now, and frequently angry. Bulma had a strong suspicion it was related to Goku—but that was only based on the way Vegeta's eyes flashed any time she mentioned him.

The nights she didn't see him—which were, perhaps, fewer than either would be willing to admit—she was never sure where he slept. The bed in his guest room was often untouched; the kitchen was often left a mess; items from the coat rack were sometimes scrambled the next morning. Once, she'd woken up to find a chair in the kitchen thrown across the room and shattered to pieces, cracks along the wall, muddy bootmarks down the hall, Trunks' crib empty, the little boy dozing peacefully and unassumingly in one corner of an armchair, haphazardly wrapped up, and Vegeta nowhere to be found. But usually, on the nights she didn't see him—like the night before last—she woke up to the house exactly as it was but for the refrigerator—slightly emptier—and a kitchen chair—not completely pushed in.

Their exchanges had been cut back to nearly the way they had been before, but now there were more significant glances. It was a bit surprising to her, what Vegeta seemed to gather from a few seconds of their silence. He would disappear days before important events—company parties, birthdays, holidays—without explanation, and without having needed one before disappearing. Months ago she and the others—Son's friends—had met up for a small party that had become more somber than she'd hoped; Vegeta had disappeared then, too, and nobody was surprised by his absence. Only Gohan had asked about him, Piccolo listening from a distance. She'd invited Gohan over to visit again as he'd left the party—but he hadn't taken her up on it yet. The boy had seemed edgy, fidgeting with a pencil he kept tucked behind his ear or in his pocket, clutching at it occasionally. Nobody asked if he was still training; nobody had to. He seemed to make a point of keeping a textbook nearby. "I know Dad would want me to keep training," he'd said, as if quietly asking if he was required to honor his father's wishes.

That was back when the rain was unrelenting, perhaps answering the boy. It was sunnier now, though the change did not seem to affect Vegeta's mood.

"Are you going to come along today?" she was careful not to touch him as she twisted around beneath the covers to face him. It was still bizarre to her, that the bare skin of this alien was so accessible; stranger still that he was here, today. Had he forgotten? She caught him, sometimes, sleeping in an out-of-the-way room; for all his silence throughout the compound, it must have been what he spent most of his time doing. Perhaps he had slept past whatever important glance they might have shared, that would have conveyed this latest event. "Are you done sleeping all the time, yet?"

"Space is best slept through," he mumbled.

"Yeah, well, that's nice," she sat up, voice fiercer. "But this isn't space, it's your _life_. You know you've got this big old place that you asked me to work on for you, to do that whole 'training' thing you used to do? It's getting dusty. Get the hell up, and at least do _something_, Vegeta."

His eyes snapped open at his name, and curiosity flickered into them. "I don't think that's your decision to make," he answered in a rumble. "Besides, I get exercise enough."

"Oh, don't give me that," she flushed a little, although it was impossible to tell if it was only her growing anger or if she was actually flustered. "Can't you, I don't know, act a bit more high and mighty like you used to?" Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not so much into sharing a bed with a stranger." He clicked his tongue in disagreement—real or not, she couldn't tell—and even as her ire flared, she smirked. "Anyway, nobody else here is gonna want to sleep with a psycho murderer. Watch yourself or your exercise routine is going to have to change."

He rolled his eyes. "May have to anyway. It doesn't seem to be a very effective routine for you, at least." Bulma's eyes widened at the insult, and his lips pulled back over his teeth in a smirk. She burst out laughing, citing her obvious perfection between giggles. Vegeta realized what he was doing, and he considered lying back down and going to sleep on principle—how dare she stir him out of his silence like this?—but was distracted from the thought by Bulma's noisy fishing through the closet as she shook all of her that jiggled to the rhythm of some tune in her head, tossing clothes at Vegeta. Gradually, he came to realize that they were his. "Why are you so happy?" he accused, and as if to rub in her apparent glee she shimmied into pants that baffled the man.

"Oh, I guess you didn't hear," she seemed to ponder pulling back her hair, inspecting herself in the mirror. Her eyes darted to him in the mirror, and she saw that Vegeta was looking at her, too. "Chi-Chi and her baby are coming home from the hospital today!"

Vegeta's eyebrow twitched. He'd known about it, of course, in the vaguest of ways, but—

"'Course that's all because I told her that this time she really shouldn't risk it, and just have surgery like she _should've _with Gohan—and _damn, _does that woman put up a fight—but I talked her into it. Anyway, of course she insisted we not go see her until she was well again—"

Of course she did—he'd heard every agonizingly loud moment of the conversation from the next room, as Bulma all but screamed into the phone. Even Chi-Chi's words had come across clearly to his side of the wall.

"—don't even know what she's named him yet!" she finished speaking, scrutinizing Vegeta. "So are you coming?" she held a shirt out to him.

He gave her a long stare. "Kakarrot's offspring," he mumbled. "Why should I show up for that?"

Bulma shrugged. "It's a nice thing to do." She smiled a little. "Babies that aren't my responsibility are so adorable!" Trunks seemed to protest from his crib, making cranky noises as he awoke. Vegeta was unconvinced—and she wasn't surprised, given the reasons she'd provided to him. "Besides," Bulma added, in an attempt to amend this, "you can compare the kid to Trunks. You know, maybe your son will be stronger than Son's!"

"Of course he will!" Vegeta spat, pulling the pants on.

"I haven't seen you train him yet," she joked, winking, but regretted it instantly at the expression that overtook the man's face. "I'm kidding, y'know. He just had his first birthday, for goodness' sake!"

"Old enough," he shrugged, and glanced toward the child, who frowned at him. "He's spoiled."

"Of course," Bulma smiled, fastening a bracelet around her wrist. "His mother is the richest, most beautiful woman on the planet!"

"I wouldn't say—" he started, and was immediately silenced by some once-foreign, paralyzing force that came from her eyes. He wondered why it was this Earthling who could always draw him into speaking, and this Earthling who could always silence him. It was worrisome, her complete disregard for his power. He had once hurt her—and, he would admit to no one, much more than he had meant to—certain that like so many of the other Earthlings she knew, she had a power that she was hiding, still, so stubborn was she. She didn't—her power was her words or her voice, or whatever made him argue with everything she said until her eyes demanded his silence.

"Just put the shirt on and—and _shave_. You know, it was awfully scratchy last—"

He rolled his eyes and was gone, and Bulma heard water running from the bathroom. She heard faint echoes of words he'd left behind him when he'd left faster than the speed of sound, grumbles of "not for you" and "was going to anyway."

...

"I decided to name him Goten. He...looks just like..." Chi-Chi smiled, half in tears, as she held the baby for the others to see. They crowded around the newborn, who glanced at them all curiously, shyly.

"Sure does," Kuririn agreed, a little flustered himself. "Tail and all!"

"Are you going to get it removed?" Bulma tilted her head. "Probably it'd be better sooner than later..."

Chi-Chi nodded, but stroked it a little as she did so. "It would likely be for the best. Goku got along without it okay, after all...Gohan, too." The young man smiled a little, nodding in agreement as he held a finger out for his little brother to grab onto. The boy clutched at it and used his tail to draw Gohan's arm closer, finally biting down on his finger.

Gohan yelped. "He's already got teeth!"

"So did you, when you were born," Chi-Chi smiled, and then glanced at Bulma, who nodded to confirm that she had experienced the same. The woman's eyes momentarily traced a path to Vegeta, who was dividing his attention between her and the child she held from the distance at which he stood. He was the only living Saiyajin, now—Chi-Chi shuddered at the thought of asking him questions, if this or that that her first son had gone through would happen to her second as well. His gaze bored into her with questions of its own, though she could not discern them.

"I wonder if he'll grow up to study as hard as his brother," Bulma winked at the boy as he glanced at the bite marks on his finger. After she heard herself ask it, she regretted it—its implicit wondering of whether the boy would train, instead, as Goku would have doubtlessly preferred for Gohan. Hoping to diffuse the tension, she asked Chi-Chi quickly, with all the glibness she could manage, "When's the study routine start?"

"Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "I feel like I'm getting too old to enforce that. I sort of hope he's more like..." the woman trailed off, trying not too look at Gohan as she realized what she was saying. "Anyway, I'm so happy you all came. Gohan, could you take him for a minute? I just need to get a glass of water and open the kitchen window...it's getting warm in here." Handing baby Goten to Gohan, she slipped out of the room. Bulma turned to Vegeta to ask him about—but he wasn't there.

"You," he mouthed at Chi-Chi from the kitchen, arms crossed as he stood in front of the sink. She gasped a little, taken aback, and he spoke again before she could gather her wits. "My son will be stronger than both of your brats."

Biting back a sigh of relief, she crossed her arms, turning her nose up as she paced over to the cabinet and pulled a glass out. "I doubt it. Goku's their father, after all."

"What—are _you_ going to train this new whelp?"

"What if I am?" she planted her hands on her hips, the glass almost cracking in her grip as she clutched it. "It's none of your business, anyway. Get out of my way!"

"The insolence of the women on this planet," he muttered, moving before her voice could grow any louder—just enough for her to reach the sink and fill her glass without touching him.

"What do you want?" She considered shoving against him, to get him to move farther away, but the thought of physical contact with the man was frightening to her. So far, she had gotten by just fine assuming that he was made of nothing but stone; if she shoved him, she would have to realize that he was flesh, too.

He took a deep breath through his nose, quietly, inaudibly over the rushing water from the sink. "Nothing."

Chi-Chi's scowl deepened. "You lying bastard. You'd better not kidnap my baby!"

"Why would I?" he snapped, moments from slamming a fist across her for suggesting such a thing. She had been a warrior at some point, he'd heard—could she not see the way his fist twitched with itching to demonstrate his offense? She slammed the full glass onto the counter and stuffed her arms across her chest, looking him squarely in the eye.

He thought of training with his own son—this little Trunks, imagined watching him become the man who had returned to the future not long ago. Had that Trunks ever known his father? Surely not for long... Maybe this Trunks would be better of for it. Stronger. Prouder. It seemed a worthy enough goal, so long as it did not interfere with his own training—

Training, which he had not done since Goku's death, and the death and revival of his own son. It hadn't been a priority, somehow; short of the child with no control over his power, he was the strongest being around. Goku would never be back—he'd have no way of comparing their power. Was he getting stronger, in the afterlife?

"Mother?" Gohan peeked his head in. "Is everything okay?" He bit his lip as he noticed Vegeta, who turned away from the both of them. After a moment's silence, the prince marched past Gohan, out of the kitchen and back into the main room. Kuririn was holding baby Goten, tickling his feet.

"Are you and Eighteen..." Bulma started, and Kuririn blushed a little.

"I don't know," he laughed nervously. "Things are weird right now. She's always around, but she never talks to me."

"I know the feeling," she sighed, and laughed when Trunks nearly tumbled out of her arms trying to tug at Goten's hair. "Good luck to you."

"And you...I guess," he eyed Vegeta warily as he entered the room and took station as far as he could be from anyone in the room. The short man leaned in close. "Has he been, you know, even meaner since the whole thing?"

She shook her head. "Just angrier, I think. Really quiet, really angry."

"Yikes," he adjusted his hold on Goten as the boy squirmed around to face Trunks, waving an accusing hand in his direction.

"But he's been kind of—subdued about it."

"Isn't that scarier?" He nearly leapt out of his skin as Goten's tail fastened itself around his arm so that the boy could balanced himself precariously, reaching with ever more determination toward Trunks.

"I guess."

"I don't get you two," he shook his head, but his attention seemed to drift as he mused. "Then again, maybe more than I did before..."

Vegeta's eyes darted between them as they conversed, and occasionally he listened for other goings-on—the other visitors conversing nearby, and Gohan and Chi-Chi in the other room. Trunks was stronger than Goten, certainly—and he wondered how the woman could possibly train her son as well as a Saiyajin could. Or would she send him off with the Namekian? It would be wasted Saiyajin blood, certainly, if this boy did not attain at least reasonable power. Was it inevitable, if he resembled his father so?

As his own son grew up, Vegeta knew that this boy would grow, too—would they know each other? Would they fight as their fathers had? This newest half-Saiyajin was certainly calmer than Trunks, his face with all the sweetness and curiosity Goku had ever held; that is, all the sweetness and curiosity of a child—whether he would remain that way was another question. Trunks often thrashed about, wailing war cries, and Vegeta was proud of that. This boy seemed content with his surroundings—just investigating them, except for that of his most intense interest—Trunks—who he seemed to be harassing with relative success.

Vaguely, he wondered if he would have stayed at all, had he not met what his son could be in the future. But then, there was nowhere else to go—perhaps it was inevitable.

Goten shifted his target from Trunks' hair to Bulma's, and the woman was laughing as Trunks seemed to become jealous and tried to swat the other child away. Vegeta felt a pang of jealousy, too—over what, he did not know. He heard footsteps leave the kitchen, and as she walked past Vegeta, Chi-Chi paused. "By the way, you're wrong," she muttered, before proceeding forward and scooping Goten out of Kuririn's arms. Vegeta shifted his gaze away from her, closing his eyes as if to ignore her, and the last thing that he saw before his lids pressed shut was Trunks' eyes piercing into his.

Whatever mysterious power Bulma's eyes held, the boy's must have held it too.


	3. Thrown

NOTE: Sorry for the delay, and sorry this chapter is shorter. I've been super busy with other stuff (school, getting ready for my first ever selling-stuff-at-a-con experience, which is this weekend and started today!). I didn't want to go into the next thing I wanted to do within this chapter, because I think it would be kind of an odd transition, so it will (I think) go into the next. Anyway, so this one's a bit shorter, but I hope you like it anyway. Thanks to everyone who's been reading this story! If you have a second after you read this chapter, please leave me a comment telling me what you think so far. This is a little different than anything I've ever written so it's good to know if it's working or not.

...

There was no telling what had gotten into him, and there was no asking, either, for fear he find out she'd caught on. Or did he expect it? Certainly he was aware of how much power the apparatus used, and that she'd notice it on the monthly breakdown of expenses—well, she or someone else she hired to take care of that sort of thing.

If that wasn't enough, there was the boy. He'd gone missing from his crib at night once or twice before. But several months ago, not more than a few days after she and Vegeta had visited the Son household to meet Goten, Bulma had awoken from her sleep and gotten up for a drink of water, absently meandering to Trunks' crib, only to find it empty. She shrugged it off with mild interest—noting to herself to check for the boy around the house in the morning, smiling a little at knowing it must have been Vegeta who had taken him—and gone back to sleep. When the sun woke her up, Trunks was in his crib again, and Vegeta was in the kitchen comparing the diagram on a box of frozen food to the toaster that sat on the counter. "Burn them when I use my _ki_," he murmured with a scowl as she opened the refrigerator, and he yanked the toaster out of its socket to inspect it more closely. "Primitive Earth technology."

She'd thought nothing of it, then—well, not much, at least; it was a rare occurrence, but she was not surprised. Bulma was surprised, however, when it happened the next day—and the next. After the third time, her curiosity got the better of her. Armed with a bowl of oatmeal that she toted along with her after a four-in-the-morning stop to the kitchen—she hadn't woken up to get it, but that would be her story, and she grazed on it contentedly enough—Bulma crept down the hallway, wishing she knew how to do that energy-suppressing trick her fighter friends could do. She settled for hoping that she was insignificant compared to whatever was going on inside the room—the gravity room.

As she peered into the window, staring raptly and spooning oatmeal into her mouth inattentively, she was surprised with what she saw.

True, none of those days had Trunks ever reappeared with bruises or broken bones, but she'd supposed that Vegeta had been training him as he'd mentioned doing before. And he was, here, certainly—but right now, the gravity display read a simple "1G." Vegeta's back was to her, blocking her view of both his face and of her little boy. Vegeta crouched close to the ground, and whatever he was doing with his arms was slow and deliberate. He took a few small steps back and to the side, and as he did so, Bulma was able to see Trunks—hobbling with skill and swinging punches at Vegeta, who gently blocked them, smirking. He lit a ball of_ ki_ on his finger and Trunks stumbled, wide-eyed, and fell backwards. The boy pulled himself up to stare deeply into the orb, and as Vegeta let it flicker back out of existence, Trunks pouted. Shaking his head, Vegeta picked the child up and stood, grasping him carefully. Bulma gasped as the man threw him across the room, and nearly fainted when she saw him just barely catch Trunks on the other side. The little boy burst out laughing, and Vegeta set him down, sighing and leaning against the wall of the room, kneading his temples with his fingers. Bulma couldn't hear him through the glass, but supposed that he was swearing at himself as he pounded one fist against the wall, surprising the boy. Vegeta glared down at him, and Bulma had just enough time to run back to her room and feign sleep before Vegeta plopped Trunks in his crib, turned on his heel, and briskly left.

Her eyes welled up just thinking about it—the first time she saw them, months ago—and here she was again, watching. Vegeta seemed angry at the boy, but still trained him every day, for a little while. Since the time she'd seen them, there had been little giggling from the child; Vegeta never held him and rarely did anything to make him smile as he had that first time, or at least not that she'd seen. He would bring Trunks back to his crib and return to training himself, in much higher gravity. Bulma had peered in on him as he trained by himself once or twice, too—but it was the same as it had been long ago, and she could hardly stand to watch him while he tortured himself as he did.

Bulma had no doubt that Vegeta somehow enjoyed having this son to care for—if nothing else, because he must have known that the boy would one day become a Super Saiyajin. And if Trunks was the reason that Vegeta had finally resumed his regular workouts, well, Bulma could not complain, even though the boy was stirred from his sleep a little early for his training sessions. Trunks seemed happy enough during the day, gurgling and mustering words, and slept soundly at night.

Still, the man always seemed angry with Trunks. She vividly remembered that first time—their mutual joy and then Vegeta's immediate frustration—and was almost sure that Vegeta's attitude toward Trunks was borne from bitterness, somehow; that for whatever reason, he was reluctant to love his son. Perhaps he didn't want to settle down—that seemed a part of it. Or perhaps his son reminded him of fighting, and stirred up memories he had been sleeping off before. Perhaps it was the birth of Goku's son that had spurred this training of Trunks, and maybe that bothered Vegeta—she wouldn't ask, yet, for at best she'd get a snarl from him. Maybe later, when he was sure to be in a good mood—but it had been a while since they'd had sex. Bulma supposed it was all the training that wore him out, and often teased him about it, with minimal results. Recently he started collapsing to sleep on her own bed just to sleep, and she was getting used to it—his warmth, and the way he squirmed when she pressed her cold toes against his seemingly endlessly warm calves in the middle of the night.

Perhaps as a tradeoff for the increased physical closeness, they talked even less. She wasn't sure which she preferred more, but without him goading her on as he often did when they argued, her productivity in all areas of her life had fallen. She supposed she'd get over it, or Vegeta would get over himself, one or the other.

Her eyes continued to stare through the window, at where Vegeta had thrown Trunks, at where he'd caught him, at where he was now throwing punches through the air at such a rate that her eyes could not perceive them, only the stone-stillness of his feet as he lunged forward time and time again into his blows. Her forehead pressed against the window a little as she leaned against it thoughtfully. Was the rest of her life going to be one with Vegeta? It certainly seemed like it. She smiled a little, but kept her head down as simultaneously she was struck with the sensation of guilt for being, maybe, part of what kept him here. But he'd said it himself—did he have anywhere else to go? She couldn't begin to fathom his situation.

For a split-second she felt an increased pressure against her forehead as the window pressed harder against it, and then stumbled backwards as Vegeta finished swinging the door open. He snarled when he saw her, and considered kicking her from her position on the ground. Instead, he simply stood over her. "What are you doing here?" he muttered.

"Just...looking in as I passed," she pulled herself up. It was technically the truth. As she regained her footing, she felt bolder. "What, you thought I didn't know that you were training?"

He seemed to consider this for a moment before crossing his arms. "Of course you did," he finally muttered, and narrowed his eyes at her. "How many other times have you 'looked in as you passed'?" Vegeta stepped closer, uncrossing his arms in a way that made Bulma wonder if he was about to grab her and throw her down the hall, and not catch her on the other side.

"Quite a few," she answered quietly, stepping away from him, and as he remained silent, she added with a shaky voice that tried to sound sharp, "You seem angrier than usual lately."

Vegeta shifted his weight. Sometimes the shake in her voice meant that she was scared—other times, that she was about to burst into screaming at him. Something in him hoped for the latter. "I'm not soft," he blurted.

"What?" Bulma blinked.

"Nice try, though," he continued, voice softer and more dangerous.

"Try?"

"At domesticating me. I am a Saiyajin. I do not—_live_ somewhere—or—_care_—" He balled his fists and glanced up toward the ceiling, through it. "I don't give a damn about you or the boy! I'd just as soon leave—"

"Well then, why don'tcha?" she planted her hands on her hips. "Anyway, I _know _you care about Trunks. You train with him every morning!" she gasped almost immediately after saying it, and Vegeta's eyes narrowed.

"He needs to learn how to fight," he answered tersely. "It would be a disgrace to what remains of...the Saiyajin..." and he was reminded again—it was only him left, now; truly he was the last one. The other had left—unlike him, apparently had somewhere else to be, someone else to fight. The flimsy excuse for a Saiyajin, stupid and kind as he was, living more of a Saiyajin life than himself, here, living in the same house day in and day out, sleeping in the same bed, for some reason constantly fixed on his offspring and this woman and their mysteriously powerful ways. "That I've gotten so comfortable here is disgusting," he spoke, and the transition seemed odd to Bulma.

"Would you rather be uncomfortable?" she challenged, before speaking more soberly, "Is that really why you're so mad—you think you're stuck here, living like this?" He remained silent, and Bulma grew more irritated as time passed, crossing her arms as he seemed to think. And she'd thought he'd _cared_ about them, maybe a little—that he was just that tiny bit better than Son, and if he was, well, then she shouldn't regret what she had missed with the other man anyway. "Well, fine," she started again, hair bristling, and she raised her voice. "Nothing's keeping you here."

So he snarled, and took off through the ceiling.


	4. Break

NOTE: Sorry for the delay, again. I've been busy and I kept getting mentally stuck with starting this, until I just decided to cross my fingers and run with it. In the end, the thing that I thought was going to happen and that I was worried about trying to figure out how to write didn't even get a chance to happen. Haha. Hope you enjoy it. Sorry all my chapters are kinda short. (Also: I have _no _idea how to write very young children, like in the stages between making weird sounds/almost-words and forming coherent sentences. _ I'm never around children of that age, so I never know. Hope it's not too bad.)  
I'd love to hear your thoughts!

...

He rocketed through the air, although he wasn't sure where on Earth he'd belonged more than where he'd left. But he was angry—and needed something to be angry at; something, someone, anyone. Images flicked into his head, of the fights he'd had, of enemies falling before him, of—of blonde hair and glimmering eyes, and he balled his fists and redirected himself. If the chattering humans were right—and sometimes they were—he knew exactly where to go.

...

"Yeah. No, yeah, he's just being a jerk. No, not like—hey," Bulma huffed into the phone. "That's not fair at all." She paused for a few moments, rolling her eyes. "It's _not _like that. I just wanna talk. No. You really think that? There's no way I—no, I don't mean it as an insult, for goodness' sake, Yamcha." She crossed her arms. "Well, fine. Be that—huh? Oh, thank you," Bulma sunk into the chair, smiling. "See you soon."

While she waited, she helped Trunks construct an impressive block tower, smiling at the boy's focus and mildly irritated gestures each time she tried to fix his mistakes. "No," he mumbled, and she laughed a little; it had been one of his first words, and one of his most frequently used.

"You don't want any help?" she lightly flicked the top block off of his building, and although it hit him squarely in the head, he barely flinched.

"No."

"You want me to ruin it?" she flicked the next one off, and was surprised when he reached both arms out to catch it before it reached his face.

"Ruin everything," he mumbled back, mystified as he said it, as if he wasn't sure of its meaning but recognized the word that Bulma had used. "Ruin everything."

Her brows knit. "Did Vegeta teach you that?" At Trunks' continued introversion, she reached around the tower to scoop him up. "You don't ruin everything, kiddo," ruffling his hair, she sighed a little. "Trust me, you're not the problem."

He seemed to take solace in the kind tone of her voice, and glanced back at her. He grinned lopsidedly and kicked his foot out to topple the tower, laughing. "Ruin everything," he said again, this time with a giggle. Bulma jumped at the sound of the doorbell, and set Trunks down to run and answer it.

"Yamcha," she gave him a quick hug and guided him in. "Thanks."

"No big deal; I was nearby," he answered, somewhat somber. "So, where's the 'jerk'?"

She shrugged. "Hell if I know. He'll be back eventually."

"What did you do?"

"I told him if he was so miserable here he could get off his ass and go wherever he wanted." She paused at his expression of mild incredulity. "But in fewer words."

"Only you would have the balls to tell Vegeta off," he laughed a little, crouching next to Trunks to watch him play.

"Balls," Trunks repeated, and seemed angry when Yamcha did not produce what he wanted. "Balls!"

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Bulma sighed, digging through a nearby box and pulling out a rubbery sphere. She rolled it to Trunks, who stopped it and began poking it. Yamcha chuckled again, taking the ball from Trunks and watching as his expression became sad, and then angry again.

"Mine!"

"I thought we'd play catch," Yamcha smiled to him, and turned to Bulma. "Is that okay?"

"Of course!" she pulled up a chair. "If you don't mind me babbling a bit while you do." Her eyes lit up as she grinned. "He's a pretty charismatic little guy, huh?" She seemed to second-guess her choice to pull up a chair, and abandoned it in favor of sitting on the floor with the other two.

"He's got his father's temper," Yamcha observed at Trunks' continued anger when Yamcha refused still to hand him the ball, and paused after opening his mouth again, biting his lip and clamping it shut before blurting, "and your beautiful eyes." His eyes darted to her as he wondered if he had gone too far. Their breakup hadn't been on awful terms, but he always felt left in the dust by her; he was still recovering from it while she had moved on and had a child with the hotheaded prince the rest of them were afraid even to touch. He often wondered why, but often remembered: she had a weak spot for the pushing-the-envelope, the too-distant-to-touch, the unreliable, the unknown. He'd been a bandit, once, and she'd swooned over him then. Things between them cooled down as he became more docile, their brief honeymoon phase aside. He was sure they could make it work—wasn't that how all relationships were; fast-paced and exciting at first, but inevitably settling into the same patterns as the rest of life?—but there had been the Saiyajin; his death; Namek; Vegeta winding up staying in her own compound, and her distance from Yamcha himself in the preceding months. These and her lively arguments with the prince doubtless left her weak-kneed for him, even if she would deny it, that that 'moron muscleman' could capture anything more than her wrath.

But Bulma smiled. "You're too nice."

"I know," he answered gravely.

"I remember when you were late to one of our dates," she mused, "and you brought flowers to make up for it, but I was still so mad." Bulma sighed. "I'd kill for some flowers right about now."

He tossed the ball to Trunks, who reached his short limbs out to catch it, stumbling back as the momentum carried him. The boy clutched it possessively, sticking his tongue out at Yamcha. "Ball. Mine."

"You know," he glanced at her, "nobody says you have to stay with him."

She seemed to consider this. "Yeah. I know. But—something seems right about it. I don't know. It's weird, Yamcha—we—sleep in the same bed. Me. And _Vegeta_. In the same bed."

"We slept in the same bed." He regretted saying it—was already sounding more desperate than he wanted to, and maybe even more desperate than he was. She was wistful and gentle now, but he remembered well enough what a fireball she could become; wondered if that was why she was the only one who could touch Vegeta, and the only one he seemed to bother with. Perhaps anyone else only served to draw away the heat and leave either of them a lifeless stone. He could not match her fire—when she tried to argue, he relented, too considerate, too sensible about the meaning of the argument in the scope of things. He saw a flicker of the fire through her eyes as she processed his comment.

"Look, Yamcha, I didn't invite you over just so you could..." she began with vigor, and then paused, sighing. "Ah, you get the idea—Trunks, come on, play nice." He was trying to punch Yamcha, now, although the man held him back at an arm's length with one hand against the boy's chest.

The boy glanced at her, baffled. "Fight?" he inquired.

"You don't fight _everybody_," she wondered if he understood. "You only fight your father, when you're training."

Trunk pointed at Yamcha. "No?"

Bulma nodded. "That's right. You don't need to fight him." She sighed. "What has Vegeta been teaching you?" The boy cocked his head and shrugged, leaning in closer to inspect Yamcha and reaching one inquisitive hand toward the scars on his face. Yamcha smiled, taking the boy's hand and helping to guide it along the scars.

"Hurts," the boy guessed.

"Yeah. Those were hurts I got," the man lowered the boy's hand. "But they don't hurt anymore. They're just scars."

"Oh," he nodded, but his continued focus on them seemed to indicate that he did not understand.

"I'm sure your father has them too," Yamcha finally continued, wondering with whom he was making conversation.

"You like kids?" Bulma asked as the other two seemed to engage in a meaningless conversation of few words understood between them.

He shrugged, grinning guiltily. "A little, yeah. In small doses."

"What're you up to these days?"

"Odd jobs," he shrugged. "The usual. You been making a lot of important machines and stuff?" the man teased.

"Not so much lately," she sighed. "Vegeta and I haven't been talking." He quirked an eyebrow, prompting further explanation. "When we don't talk, we don't argue. When we don't argue, I don't have anything to prove, and I don't huff off and lock myself in the lab for a couple of days, getting something _done _to show I'm better than him."

"You're too much," he seemed to admit, placing a hand on her shoulder. "And you work too much. You should just take a break, and come back after a while and you'll be more productive."

"I don't really have anything else to do," she shrugged. "And I don't want to get dragged back into thinking about..."

"Still got Goku on your mind?" he was quiet. He wasn't sure, but he swore she had had at least some phase of being attracted to Goku, too, once he got older—but Yamcha and she had been dating then, off-and-on. Goku was more of the mysterious—more unreliable, distant, untouchable, and even, before they knew, then they would have used un-human to describe him. Yamcha had become vanilla by then—and would readily admit that he'd been as frustrated with their relationship as Bulma, if for different reasons. He should have known her tried-and-true method of getting work done; she always tried to spark an argument between them, would get herself riled up and not show her face again for weeks. He'd thought, at first, that she was pouting, genuinely upset by this or that minor error he'd made. But no; she was deeply absorbed in a new invention as she blew off her own artificial steam, leaving him to wonder what was to become of him. At one point, he had thought she had genuinely meant to break up with him as she left and didn't contact him for weeks, a month, more. Was he to blame, for grudgingly returning to his own devices after a few lonely visits to the bar?

It comforted him a little to know that things would not have gone any better for her and Goku—for would he ever put up an argument? He would be perpetually confused, accused of abandoning her only to be abandoned himself for days or weeks on end. He doubted she thought that much into it, this apparently small but persistent obsession with hers over her childhood friend.

"Yeah," she murmured. "I just can't believe he's gone. For good."

"Well," he had taken to building his own block tower with Trunks' recently toppled blocks as the boy sat beside him, leaning over so that his head rested against the man's leg, "for what it's worth, I'm here to help however I can." He smiled halfheartedly. "I'm always here."

...

He was seeing red, but swore that he could hear the vague whirr of whatever machinery resided within her from outside the door. He had sworn he'd never fight, but what did that mean? Why couldn't he change his mind? He was, after all, _Vegeta_, and didn't need to rely on the presence of anyone else to egg him on to keep fighting; and how _dare_ anyone suggest otherwise? Clearly he still had it in him; could prove it by showing that he could indeed defeat the last living person who had defeated him.

Vegeta kicked down the door unceremoniously, not bothering to register the embarrassment he struck across the face of the almost-naked ex-monk who froze with shaky fingers on clasps.

"You," Vegeta narrowed his eyes at the other occupant of the room, "ugly rustbucket. You will fight me now." He felt the dull ache of pain in his arm that reminded him of humiliation, almost-unrivalled humiliation that served to raise his voice and his power as he spat, "Now!"

Her face was impassive and her eyes seemed to will Kuririn's hands to stay in position. "Can't you see that I'm busy?" she asked with utmost disinterest in what his response might be.

"Now," he growled again, a distinctly unstable shake in his voice. He wondered if she had moved too fast again—to fast for him to see—if his arm would snap at any moment, as its pain increased, as he remembered.

"I don't know who you think I am," she finished unhooking her bra for Kuririn, and he scrambled to hold it in place, blushing madly and stuttering something that was unintelligible to the other two. "But I'll give you some hints about what I'm not. I'm not some muscle-bound monkey. I don't give a shit about fighting you. And I'm not really interested in letting you kick me around just to make yourself feel better." She rolled her eyes. "Now get the hell out. I have some business to finish before the others in this house wake up." Kuririn gulped and made a few choking noises, as if he was trying to laugh apologetically but couldn't force the air quite all the way through his throat.

"It wouldn't be much trouble to blow them up," Vegeta gritted out, but his words went unheard as Eighteen leaned forward, muttering something in Kuririn's ear and snapping the elastic of his underwear. At the continued lack of response to his statement, Vegeta smashed his hand through a nearby case of workout videos and into the wall behind it, roaring as he took off through the ceiling.

"Shit," Eighteen muttered as a confused and sleepy groan echoed from the hole to the upstairs bedroom, tired feet scraping across the wood floor and nearing the newly created skylight that shone from above.

Kuririn handed Eighteen her shirt, sighing, and pulled his pants back on before retreating behind the couch to find his shirt. "That...was weird," he finally managed.


	5. Threat

NOTE: Hmm, I'm a little uncertain of this chapter. I do hope it's all right, that it's not too boring and that I got the mood about right. And yeah, I'm sorry, this makes three chapters in a row that are temporally contiguous, somewhat detracting from the intended "snapshot" nature of the story. I don't think it'll happen again.

Oh, and thanks to everyone for their reviews/comments. If you added this story to your alerts/favorites, I would really love it if you leave me a comment sometime letting me know why you like it. This will help me in writing future stuff! I'm serious when I say that whenever I get an email saying someone has left a review on this story, I feel a surge of motivation to keep working, which has been much-needed of late. It feels great to know that you guys are here for me to share this story with, and to hear how well/poorly it meshes with your visions of the characters.

...

Vegeta found himself at a familiar cliff face—one where he had thought often just after Goku's death, before he had started living at Capsule Corp again. He landed with such force that the rock nearly crumbled away beneath him, and its momentary survival was in vain as he dropped to one knee and slammed his fist into it; layers of the rock fell away to the ground far beneath. He thought he had accepted it once already—that he would never fight Goku again—and was ready to embrace this sudden compulsion to fight someone else. But now, boxed back into his own mind by the cold shoulder of the cyborg, he had to remember that he had never really wanted to fight _her_. No—still anyone who he would seek out to fight he would pin that man's face to. His fists balled tighter as he drifted in the direction the crumbling cliff's face had slid, landing on precariously balanced sheets of rock.

Everything that existed anymore was trying to turn him away from who he had been.

There was Goku's death—holding him back from satisfaction, from pursuing what he had once thought to be an unstoppable urge to fight and hurt and kill. He could fight someone else, but—who could challenge him? At best his hunger could be sated temporarily; and then he'd turn his back, and remember the one he'd never gotten to defeat by his own hand, and feel the pangs again. Had tried it, once—no one he cared about had ever found out about the small town that died violently in the night. Without Goku's quaking features there, reacting to the horror; without anyone to know that he was still _Vegeta_ but the ones who would never speak again, it had been worthless. So he was stripped of this part of him, but it was nothing new; he had been stripped of it since he'd come to live on Earth. But then he'd still dreamed of it, and it had still been a possibility: one day cornering Goku, enraging him by offing a few of his friends as he'd done before—spurring the fight he'd always wanted, and the one where he'd prove his superiority. But then the other Saiyajin had gone and done it—painted himself the saint, dying for the cause and leaving Vegeta behind never to fight him again.

And then there was his son, perhaps even better than his rival's absence at demanding he become something he wasn't. He found himself caring for the child, and hated it—had no problem with awaiting the day his boy would become strong, and trained him in ways he only wished he had been taught as a boy—but to _care _for him was to go too far. He'd known, somewhere in him, that it would happen, with the burning panic and rage he'd felt when Cell had killed his son-from-the-future, that he might end up _loving _this boy. Trunks was bright, and quick, and always a hair's breadth from bringing a smirk to Vegeta's eyes before he stopped himself. Vegeta was not someone to love, or to become attached; surely this boy could not change him so much from the man who had killed the Saiyajin who'd all but raised him, simply for failure in battle. Nappa had been something of a family, or at least the only thing he could come close to considering a family, but he'd done what was best—and couldn't he do what was best for Trunks, too, and train him, without this nagging feeling of affection? But it seemed impossible, and even now thinking that if he did not return to the Capsule Corp. compound before nightfall he would likely miss his time with the boy tomorrow worried him. He was certain, at least, that the longer he avoided physical contact beyond fighting with the boy, the longer he'd be able to hold onto everything that he was.

There was Bulma, too—more an enigma than the other two, for he could not place quite what she was doing to him. He was certain any positive feelings he had about her arose from the sex, and the things she built him, and maybe the quiet morning hours before he left to train, when their skin touched and her breathing was slow. For a while, he had refused to speak much with her, and especially refused to argue with her, for her magic seemed to lie in that split second where her blue eyes flashed in challenge, and surely the less they interacted, the less drawn to her he would be. But this strategy seemed to have backfired; it was as if she was proving to him that she didn't need to speak to him to suck him in. And it wasn't the sex; he'd avoided that for some time, too, in the hopes that this would prove his hypothesis. She had all but stopped building any of her projects, let alone the ones intended to help him in his training, although she had seemed pleased at first that he had returned to it. Was it just because he knew her best—or better than anyone else on this planet—that he kept going back to her? But it was foolish to think he knew her best, besides that perhaps he knew her body best—even that he wasn't sure of, so little he knew of her. Her shouted words had told him enough, and he shivered at remembering the feeling of fighting with her. It was a different type of sparring—but at least this rival was still here.

For good measure, he took another swing at some stone in the cliff that had not broken away, and widened the gap that had been created by a long-dry river. He would never fight Goku again, but could maybe, at least, hold onto a piece of what he had been. The best he could do was strive for it, resist the warm charm of the family that had somehow taken grip at his innards.

It would not take long to walk back to Capsule Corp., and he needed a little more time to think—he took off at a slow but regal stride in the right direction.

...

Bulma leaned quietly against Yamcha, pretending to doze as the man listened carefully to a now-babbling Trunks, occasionally making sounds in response to the boy's half-intelligible words, and wondered if this is how it would have been.

"Punch," Trunks spoke in earnest, "kick." Yamcha smiled a little and made a motion with his arms. "Block," Trunks added, and mumbled a few sounds afterward that were apparently important, based on the way his eyes shone.

"Smart kid," Yamcha commented, stealing a glance at Bulma, some of her hair sticking against his shirt from the static caused by the dry winter air as her head leaned against his shoulder. He wondered if this is how it could have been, and gathered Trunks into his lap, to see how it would feel, to be part of a family. In his youth, he would have scoffed at yearning for such things, but seeing Goku, of all people, settling down—and then, arguably, _Vegeta_—he had been reconsidering those thoughts often lately. He reminded himself chidingly that Bulma was far too much for him to handle—alternating between fiery stubbornness and a kind of neediness that he could not understand, having spent so long being independent from everyone but Puar. In the quiet, though, with her mouth half-open while she breathed, one lazy hand resting against his leg, she seemed peaceful enough. Trunks, meanwhile, squirmed around a bit before leaning against Yamcha's chest, doing his best to cross his arms as he had seen his father do so many times. He, too, seemed to drift off quickly. Yamcha raised one arm to wrap it around Bulma's shoulders. "I wish I could be the kind of guy you need," he muttered quietly, blushing a bit even though he supposed that no one had heard him. "But it's okay," he finally added, and it sounded nice as he said it. "I always was a lone wolf."

Bulma seemed to nod in her sleep, rubbing against his shoulder as her hand tightened against his leg. "This is nice," she murmured, and Yamcha nearly jumped, wondering if she had heard anything that he'd said.

"Y-yeah," he agreed shakily, and suddenly became conscious of his arm around her shoulder. He removed it, but his hand got caught in her hair, and he gently extricated it, brushing his fingers through it a few times before setting his hand against the floor to support some of his weight. "Bulma..."

"I'm sorry it turned out bad with us," her eyes were still closed, and she scooted closer. "The one guy I liked who's _not _a total ass..."

"I think you just have the hots for badness," he joked lightly. "Watch out, or next you'll want to wish back Cell to ask him on a date."

"Yamcha!" she seemed aghast, and this time her eyes did open. But then she laughed and closed them again, crossing her arms indignantly. "He was _ugly_. They have to be bad _and _hot."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he grinned, "but it doesn't explain why you had a thing for Goku."

Bulma shrugged. "He wasn't exactly mister goody two-shoes," she said defensively, "and anyway, it's more like I have it in for guys who I know will abandon me."

"Hey..." he started, "I never abandoned you."

"Exactly," she laughed guiltily, and a long stretch of quiet followed before she spoke again. "Hey, I know we haven't talked that much, you know, since we stopped going out..." Bulma paused. "But we're still friends, right?"

"I came here when you called," he rolled his eyes. "I think that's evidence enough."

"Good point. Hey...Yamcha?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you kiss my forehead?"

"What?"

"My forehead. I don't know," she was suddenly a bit defensive, brow creasing, "I just like the feeling, and...I need a little therapy right now, you know? So—I mean, it doesn't mean anything, but—please?"

He shrugged a little, blushing. "Okay, but _only_ because you said. All right?" he leaned down and paused, a hair's breadth from her forehead and asked again, "All right?"

"'Course," she closed her eyes, smiling and waiting, and he lowered his lips onto her forehead, feeling her shiver as he did. On his lap, Trunks snored a little. Yamcha paused in place, watching Bulma's face and the emotions that riddled it, watching as her eyes stayed closed, and closed his own eyes, briefly.

Bulma felt the sudden absence of Yamcha's lips against her forehead at the same time she heard a loud bang and a louder smack, and by the time her eyes caught up, Yamcha was on his feet, thumb against the corner of his mouth and Trunks clinging to his back with wide eyes fixed in the same direction as Yamcha's narrowed ones. She followed their gaze across the room to Vegeta, who seemed surprised himself, even through the blood that pounded through his eyes and the veins that bulged on his forehead. "Get the fuck out of my house," he snarled.

She would have sworn she was too scared to speak, but Bulma planted her hands against her hips as she stood. "Excuse me, but this is _my_ house, and _you _have no say in who does and does not visit!"

"What are you going to do to keep me from kicking him out the window?" Vegeta challenged.

Bulma turned her nose up. "I have more dignity to deal with your bullshit," she countered, striding over to Yamcha. "Especially since all I was doing was visiting with a good friend. Yamcha, tell him you're not gonna leave! You won't stand for that kind of treatment!"

"I oughtta..." he murmured, still frowning a little. "I oughtta go. I—shouldn't have done that last thing, even though you asked." Yamcha continued to stare at Bulma, but seemed to add for Vegeta's benefit, "It didn't mean anything." His chest puffed as he took a deep, slow breath. "Sorry for causing you trouble," he motioned to a few drops of blood that had escaped his mouth before he could reach up and stop it. Bulma wondered vaguely if Vegeta's punch against Yamcha's face was the first time he had hurt someone since what the others had described as his going berserk against Cell.

"It's no big deal," she smiled, patting his back and taking back Trunks. "Take care, okay? I'll see you again sometime," she asserted, glancing at Vegeta as she said it.

"Sure," he smiled guiltily, pacing toward the door and stiffening noticeably as he passed Vegeta, who watched him go with stone features. The main door slid shut quietly, and in the silence of the room they heard Yamcha opening a capsule, starting a car, and leaving the long Capsule Corp. drive. The moment the sound of his car faded back into the silence of the dark evening, the two locked eyes.

"What the _hell _were you thinking?" Bulma shrieked, and Trunks quaked in her arms before focusing his icy blue eyes in the same direction as his mother's, with what seemed to be a perfect imitation of her accusing glare.

"What the hell were _you _thinking?" Vegeta snapped back, taking a few stiff steps toward her, his back and neck arched forward slightly as his coldness quickly went up in flame, and he felt an animal inside him.

"_Me_? I was thinking I would invite an old friend over because sometimes I need to talk to someone about what an _asshole _you are to me, and _maybe_ I enjoy actually being in someone's company every now and again instead of wallowing in blueprints and wires and soldering irons day and night just _wishing _I could come up with something good because I'm too _miserable_ being by myself all the time!"

"Done yet?" he tried to raise an eyebrow coolly, but the words escaped as a snarl and his features convulsed accordingly.

Her eyes enlarged visibly in rage as she held Trunks close, chest swelling behind him. "No! Because you know what, Vegeta? You know what I felt like today when I was sitting here with Yamcha and Trunks? I felt like I had a _family_. Not just me and my son and some bum who doesn't speak to me even though we sleep in some bed, who pretends to hate our kid because gods forbid he ever start _caring _about somebody—" she noticed his eyes widen slightly at this statement, temporarily taken aback as she seemed to strike exactly something he'd been thinking, "but a _family_." When he remained silent, she turned on her heel and marched back to Trunks' room to lay him down for the night, hoping that the yelling hadn't disturbed him so much to prevent him from sleeping. The boy seemed to calm down the farther they got from the main room, and was lulled into a near-sleep by the time he was tucked into bed. Bulma gazed upon him for a few moments, and then realized that she had completely forgotten about eating dinner. Whether Vegeta was waiting for her to return in that room or not, she would stroll through it and fish out something to eat in the kitchen just beyond.

And indeed he was still in the room, but Bulma simply turned her nose up and attempted to duck past him. Just when she was sure she had made it past, something tugged at her arm and jerked her to a stop. "Vegeta!" she shouted.

"I'm not done with you yet," he hissed.

"_Ohh_," she fumed, trying to pull herself away from his grip, "you have no _right _to even say such a thing! I should be the one cornering _you_, for what you did! But am I? No, because right now I'd much rather get some dinner and—"

"I doubt you could 'corner' me," and as far as Bulma could tell, he seemed genuinely offended that she had suggested such a thing, crouching a little as if he might pounce on her and tear her to shreds, keeping a firm grip on her arm all the while.

"Let me go," this time she was the one growling.

"Make me."

So she jerked her knee upward and struck between his legs; Vegeta, caught off-guard, had no time to block it. "_Never _do that again," she shook a little as her hairs stood on-end. Even before, even when Vegeta was still more vicious and still a stranger, he had not held onto her against her will; she had supposed he had considered himself above such things. "You're not in charge of this house and you are _not _in charge of _me_."

Vegeta backed up into the wall, visibly attempting to mask the pain and the embarrassment that such a weak person as Bulma had caused it. He took one shaky breath, eyes downcast. "That wasn't...what I..." he managed. Bulma crossed her arms, gazing down her nose at him as she impatiently waited for him to finish. "...Had...in mind...when I said 'make me.'"

"Oh, yeah? What were you thinking I was gonna do, l—" this time she was the one to be surprised, as Vegeta was suddenly closer to her, his knuckles resting against the zipper of her jeans.

"Something...gentler," he still wasn't looking at her, and she was left wondering if he would have answered something else, if not for her previous words about family that may have prompted him to change his course—if this was, indeed, his end goal.

"Gentle?" she scoffed. "You being gentle is like Son being subtle—"

"You will not speak of him," Vegeta snapped, and his fingers twitched a little; he slid his hand up and down a few times, "while any part of me is this close to this part of you," he finished, fingers moving again, and Bulma wondered how her zipper had come undone—had it been undone all day? She blushed a little and squirmed. And as if not responding to her assertion had been bothering him, Vegeta added in a voice that struck her as dangerous, "I can be gentle."

"What a change of heart," she rolled her eyes. "How kind of you."

"Well, don't fuck it up," he threatened, his other hand reaching around and tucking itself into her back jeans pocket, thumb seeming to consider whether it could get a good enough grip on her belt loop to yank the pants down.

"I hope you don't hate Yamcha as much as you seem to," she warned, crossing her arms even as the hand against her front crawled up her shirt and rested against her belly.

"I couldn't care less about him," he snorted, and smirked a little as Bulma shivered against the cold of his gloves, still a bit chilly from the time the man had spent outside recently. He peeled them off carefully rubbed his hands together, and placed them back where they had been.

"You weren't kidding when you said gentle," she quirked an eyebrow at how considerate he seemed for having bothered to warm his hands up at all.

"Like I said," he warned, "don't push it."

"Did you get a chance to blow off some steam?" she asked, pausing to help him unhook her bra and wondering vaguely why so much practice on his part had yet to yield improvement in that area.

"No," he growled.

"Where did you go?"

"A cliff," Vegeta grunted, attempts at pressing his mouth against the woman's thwarted by her insistence on speaking with him. She rolled her eyes and followed his lead, wrapping her arms around him to grab at the back of his training pants after peeling off her shirt and discarding the loosened bra with it, taking note of where they landed on the off chance one of her parents would venture down to this area at the hour they normally went to bed—and that she would hear them if they did. Bulma opened her mouth to speak again, but thought better of it; discussion would best be done after the fact, no matter how much she wanted to say to him, to ask him to promise, to assure him of so many things—for he was still Vegeta, and still impatient, and for the moment, the best thing she could do for the both of them was help him remove her from her tight jeans, hope he'd start picking fights with her like this again, and worry about the rest later.


	6. Explosions

NOTE: I promised myself I'd finish this before I went to bed, then got distracted for a while before I came back to work on it. Therefore, the second half was written between approximately and 4:30am and 5:30am. I hope it doesn't show...I guess if it's too awful, I'll come back and fix it tomorrow. Please tell me what you think! I think there will be approximately three more chapters, but am not sure.

...

"D-_Dad_," Trunks whined as he failed once again to dodge his father's ki blast, and it hit him squarely in the chest. He stumbled backward.

"Do you know what today is, Trunks?" Vegeta lowered his palm and assumed a stance that towered over the boy both physically and psychologically. He shivered a little.

"N-nuh-uh," he finally admitted.

Vegeta breathed deeply, eyes darting to the side for a moment before the continued. "It's been exactly four years since I started bringing you in here," he growled, and strode over to the console. "And you haven't improved nearly as much as I expect of any son of mine." Trunks felt the yank of suddenly higher gravity, and his chin fell forward onto the pristine tile with force. He struggled to pull himself back into a sitting position. "You're going to have to work harder if you want to keep training with me."

Trunks opened his mouth to speak, but his father's glare seemed to force it closed even against the higher gravity, and he merely nodded as he stood.

"Let's resume. Try to keep up with me this time."

But whatever his father had been holding back before, he was not holding back now, and Trunks felt blow after blow knock him backwards. Sweat began dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, but if he reached up to wipe it out, he missed a chance to block. When Vegeta grabbed Trunks by the shoulders, his heart leapt inexplicably, but then he was kneed in the stomach and left to soar across the room. Vegeta caught him on the other side with a fist, and Trunks tumbled to the ground, unable to muster the strength to land on his feet, or at least break his fall. "Dad," he spoke through clenched teeth, "I can't." When silence followed, Trunks dreaded seeing the expression his father wore—but was forced to when Vegeta's foot flipped him onto his back, directly beneath the man's gaze.

"Words not befitting of a Saiyajin prince," Vegeta's voice was dangerously quiet.

At this, Trunks was compelled to pull himself halfway into a sitting position. "I'm not you, Dad," his voice shook. "And I don't think I'm ever gonna be like..." he hung his head. "I dunno why..." and how his hands cupped over the back of his head, "why you think I can _do _this..."

"Because I know you can," he growled, fists tightening in his gloves.

"How?"

"I just do," he spat, voice raising back to the loud, harsh yell Trunks was used to. It comforted him, somehow, but he kept his eyes on his shoes. "Boy," Vegeta barked, and Trunks' eyes snapped to his father's out of habit. As he caught sight of the rage on Vegeta's face, he regretted looking. "Don't take me for a fool," the man warned. "And don't mock me."

"I'm not—"

"You think I'm crazy," he breathed slowly, nostrils flaring. "That I'm delusional." Vegeta's lips pulled back over his teeth, as Trunks stood slowly, leaning against the wall, the man had to blink back flickers of images, of his rival superimposed on his son, of—had he been seeing this way all day today? He rubbed his eyes before returning their gaze to Trunks. "Maybe I am," he tried to maintain the slow breaths. "But I know that you are stronger than this...that you can be stronger than this," he amended.

"Dad, I—"

"Shut up, boy. You're far too soft, and it shows. What would you do if—if something important was taken away from you? Would you bawl like a child and wait for it to come back?"

"Im-important...?" he bit his lip. "Like..."

"You would act as you do when you lose a toy—cry and wait for another one to appear beside your bed the next morning."

"No!" he crossed his arms indignantly, shaking his head.

"You would be too busy whimpering in the corner to fight for it—to—fight—to..."

Trunks braced himself for the inevitable repercussions of his words as he opened his mouth. "Dad, I'm not losing anything important, okay? And—and I can't just _fight_ like you do—I'm only _five_, even Mom says it!"

"Only five," it seemed to come from his throat without leaving his mouth. Trunks heard his father's toes curl within his boots, and prepared for the man to leap at him with the perfect counter-argument and another well-aimed punch. He watched Vegeta carefully for a sign, and saw his stomach ripple upward, saw him swallow something back, saw his eyes widen and then close tightly as he slammed his fist against the wall with the kind of force that Trunks was sure would have crushed him. While his father seemed distracted, eyes still squeezed shut and muscles up and down his chest and stomach convulsing, Trunks dashed across the room, punching in the code as if it was his fingers that remembered it like a lifeline, and not his father's. The door slid open and then shut again behind him, and he paused to breathe before sprinting down the hallway to the main entry area. His mother was off working on something important, and she wouldn't understand, anyway—and—it would just get his father in trouble—his breath hitched, and he wasn't sure what he was thinking anymore, couldn't make sense of words or thoughts but only of his body as it pushed him forward.

Before he could register where he was going, Trunks' feet were pounding through the dried spines of pine trees, dodging tree trunks, dodging branches, dodging bears and birds and he could wonder only if he had ever moved so fast, and if it was only desperation that had brought him this far, and if he was setting the forest on fire with the flames that seemed to lick over his body. Finally, he collapsed, succumbing to his aching legs and scraped-up knees that begged him to stop. The flames gradually died down, and as they settled back into his skin they seemed to return his young mind to him, and he could think again.

On his fifth birthday, several weeks ago, his father had seemed on-edge, and he wasn't the only one who had noticed it. His mother had, too, and he had seen her take him aside to talk in hushed tones in the next room as his candles burned down closer to the cake, wax dribbling down onto the red-brown frosting. It was his favorite color, that red, and it reminded him of the rusty door-hinges at Goten's house and of the time his father had wrapped a deep leg wound of his and the blood came through the first few layers of bandages. It was like the admission passes to the amusement park, last year when his mother and his father both took him there for his fourth birthday.

When they had returned, Bulma's face was somber and Vegeta was quiet and impatient. He tried to ask about it later, but neither of them would say a thing. Vegeta's mood hadn't changed, much, since—until today, when the quiet was broken for a lecture and the impatience was broken for rage. He had a feeling that whatever it was, it didn't _really _have to do with it having been four years since he started training. He couldn't even remember most of that time, only knew that the scent of the gravity room was etched into his mind, and that he didn't feel so great about the way it made him nauseous.

Whatever burst of power had brought him here, he hoped, a little, that he would never see it again. He'd felt like his mind was gone, and everything in his eyes had been a little red. His head and ears had pounded as if full of explosions and fireworks, like his insides were pushing away the pieces of him that kept him from running faster, the thoughts and the fatigue. The forest wasn't ablaze, and he wondered why. Somehow, he had been able to do more than he should have been able to—he wondered if, for just that small window of time, he was as strong as his father wanted him to be.

Taking in his surroundings, he realized that his feet had carried him more than halfway to Goten's house. It would be a good idea to go there, he decided—for Goten's house was less confusing, and Goten didn't have a father. Trunks mused on that his mother had once mentioned that Goten used to have a father, but she had made Trunks promise not to tell Goten about it. Something about her expression made him believe that it was very important he keep that particular promise.

Glancing up to the sun to get his bearings, Trunks walked through the forest carefully, calming his breathing and taking each step as if a spring off the wrong patch of ground would make him burst back into that mindless state, and if he made it to Goten's feeling like that, well, he might accidentally run through their house with his shoes on, or break the wall. Goten's mother had a particular problem with breaking walls that his own mother did not seem to have; Bulma sighed and rolled her eyes and punched a button. Sometimes Chi-Chi screamed and sometimes she cried and she usually sloshed out a bucket and what seemed to Trunks to be a bag of rocks. It was odd.

He couldn't see the house yet, but he knew he was near; trees here and there had been cut down, and the paths that Goten took when he wandered the woods with his big brother were becoming more and more visible. Trunks knew this part of the woods, and even smelled breakfast cooking in the Son household as he drew nearer. His father always made him train early; he was up even before Goten. He was surprised not to feel hungry—felt right now like his stomach was full of stones, clanking around inside him like he should get a good rest before doing anything else, or at least sit down for a while. As he neared the house, he snuck around to the back and scurried up the side to rap on Goten's window. "Hey," he whispered in, and smirked a little to see his friend only now stirring from his sleep.

"Whaddaya..." Goten started, yawning, and shortly after cracking one eye open to look at Trunks, he snapped awake. "What h-_happened_?"

"Huh?"

"Your hair's got sticks," Goten pointed, "and stuff."

"Damn," the young boy swore as he reached up to feel his hair, and his friend slapped his palms over his ears at hearing the word.

"Don't do that! Mommy says—"

Trunks shook his head a little, and leaned in closer, as if he was considering climbing in.

"Why're you here?"

He was suddenly somber. "Dad was...weird..." he murmured.

"Oh," Goten nodded, and Trunks was fairly certain Goten had no idea what he was talking about. After all, he didn't have a father; how could he know what it was like, when dads act weird?

He opened his mouth as if to elaborate, but nearly lost his grip on the windowsill at the sound of crackling and a _boom_ in the distance. "I think that's him," he whispered, and paused to listen again. Another explosion. Another. At least, he was pretty sure that was what that sound was. He had heard it a few times before, but couldn't quite remember where. "Yeah," Trunks turned back to Goten, "I gotta leave," he murmured. "I think something's wrong with Dad."

"O...okay," Goten nodded vigorously, and as Trunks dropped from his position at the window to sprint toward the source of the noise, Goten rolled over to pretend that he was asleep, just before Chi-Chi opened the door.

It didn't take long for Trunks to reach the area where the explosions had been, but he realized as he arrived that that didn't necessarily mean his father was nearby. He skirted around the craters as his eyes focused on the sky, still dim as the sun grudgingly held its light back for as long as it could before it had to blossom over the horizon. Trunks had half a mind to call out to his father, but wondered if it might be better to see what he was doing first, and decide then if it would be better to turn around and leave.

He didn't have a choice—the quiet tapping of boots against the crusted clay that was the ground beneath him was familiar. He shivered, and hung his head rather than turning around. Trunks didn't need his eyes to tell that rage was bubbling off his father. He was suddenly lightheaded, though he could still feel the rocks bumping around in his stomach. Vaguely, he wondered if his neck would disconnect from his body and float away. When he opened his mouth to say something—anything—to his father, he felt like he was sick. It reminded him of chicken broth and blankets. Maybe he _was _sick. This was the wrong place to be...

"Trunks," came a short growl. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard explosions," he wondered how he managed it, and clenched at his stomach. Maybe his father was sick, too, and that was why he'd been cringing and swallowing something back down his throat earlier. "I thought it was you 'cause you're the only one who can make things blow up like that." He paused. "Maybe Goten's brother. But he was at breakfast—"

"Stop!" Vegeta barked. Trunks wondered what had gotten into him, talking so much all of a sudden. Maybe he wasn't sick, maybe the words were just trying to come up too fast.

"You're acting funny," he blurted, and after momentary consideration, crossed his arms. "I don't like it. It's not the training thing, either. Right?"

"And your mother says _only_ five," he breathed out.

"Dad. The thing, at my birthday, when Mom made you go away and talk to her."

The man spat at the ground. "What of it?"

"What was it? Are you still mad? You're still mad. Why are you blowing things up?" He thought of his head, the explosions, the fireworks, the fire, and thought of saying something—but now wasn't the right time, and he wondered if it was an accident. If he said it, he might do it again, and what then? His mind would go away and he'd say something stupid and his father would never tell him what the big deal was. "You should tell me, 'cause, otherwise I'm gonna think you're a wimp for not wanting to say it," he challenged.

"Fine," he growled, massaging his forehead. "Your mother won't like it."

"Like how she wouldn't like if I told Goten about how he used to have a dad?"

"A bit," Trunks saw the man's other hand—the one that wasn't on his forehead—wrap around his stomach for a moment before falling to his side. "You know that I'm not from Earth," he started.

"Oh," Trunks nodded, wondering if he should come closer, if he should sit like he did when his mother read him stories. This seemed like it would be a story. "Okay. I guess I kind of knew that."

Vegeta's throat rumbled a little bit. "You know because you know that I am a Saiyajin, and you have part of that in you—" he glanced up, and Trunks was paying rapt attention. "You know that I am a prince. And since Kakarrot is dead, the only full-blooded Saiyajin left."

"Kakarrot...is Goten's dad, right?"

"Yes." He saw the boy sit and, at a loss for how to respond, took a seat as well, resting one arm over his raised leg as he avoided eye contact with the boy. "All the other Saiyajin died."

"How come?"

"Our planet was blown up," his fists clenched, and Trunks shied away, afraid that they might explode from their position toward whatever was nearest. "I was young." Trunks felt the rocks stir, and his throat tighten, and it was fairly certain it was all because of the way that the words came from his father's throat, all strained. "I was your age." When Trunks was silent, suddenly dizzier than he had been when he had been running through the woods, Vegeta continued. "Years later, when I met Kakarrot, he stripped me of my pride." He breathed deeply. "What's more, he became a Super Saiyajin before I did—"

"Super?" Trunks mustered, clutching at the rock beneath him. Vegeta seemed so angry at Goten's dad—his eyes glimmering in a scary way that they sometimes did when his own sparring sessions with his father got intense, as had happened earlier this morning.

"Like this," Vegeta muttered, and closed his eyes. His hair lightened and when he opened his eyes again, they were bright teal. Trunks leaned in close, breathing slowly in awe as he felt the power radiate from his father. He thought to mention what had happened to him—had it been the same thing? His hair might have changed color without him noticing, since he was in such a hurry, and somehow the way the air crackled around him was familiar—but maybe he shouldn't say anything. It had made his father mad, right, that someone else had gotten there too? And besides, he wasn't even sure. He reached out to touch the bright tufts of hair, bristly as ever.

"Your planet exploded," Trunks murmured. "So this is a thing that only Saiyajin can do? This super thing?"

"Yes."

Trunks smirked a little bit, and let his hand fall from his father's hair. Hesitantly, he allowed himself to lean against the man a little. "Cool," he wasn't sure what else to say. Vegeta did not react as Trunks' head pressed against his shoulder, and the boy took some solace in the solid, stony feel of his father even as the blonde filtered out of his hair and the power faded away. "Dad, not that many people have dads who are really strong alien princes."

"I suppose not," he agreed quietly.

"Also, you're really mean sometimes. I mean _really _mean."

He was silent until Trunks nudged him. "Yes."

"It's okay, I guess. I kind of like being part Saiyajin. I guess you can be mean sometimes if your whole planet blew up."

His fingers twitched as if he might reach up and ruffle the boy's hair, but he seemed to think better of it.

"Can you be less mean to me, though?" As Vegeta closed his eyes and did not speak, Trunks added, "I'll try extra hard to be strong. I think I can be really strong, Dad." He leaned in close and lowered his voice, "Sometimes Goten and I spar, in secret. You know, I can almost beat him except that he can jump up trees and stuff, and I'm not so good at it."

Vegeta stood abruptly, and Trunks wondered if he'd said something wrong. Was he supposed to be good at jumping up trees, too? But there weren't nearly as many trees where he lived as there were where Goten lived. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Vegeta spoke before he could.

"Listen carefully, boy. I'm going to teach you how to fly and I'm only explaining it once."


	7. Thunderstorm: Reprise

NOTE: This is the last chapter. I know, it was kind of sudden! But, this chapter is longer than the usual, so maybe that's compensation?

I hope it's not too, uh, weird. And I hope I have succeeded in my goal of connecting up the Cell and Buu arcs, and making sense of Vegeta's attitude and decisions during the Buu arc.

This chapter is supposed to reflect the first one, a bit.

I hope you enjoyed it! Please tell me what you think!

...

Vegeta was surprised to hear someone rapping on the door to the gravity room. Usually Trunks came in with him—or else entered without much warning. Bulma tended to do the same, except that her entrance was usually preceded by a sudden drop in gravity back to that of Earth. Her parents knew better than to bother him—so did anyone else who would visit. There was one other time that someone had bothered to knock on the gravity room door, but it had been several years ago. Yamcha had stopped by to apologize for something or another. He could scarcely remember what, now, besides that shortly after he left, Bulma entered, accusing Vegeta of this or that in the roundabout way she did when she didn't want to admit that anything was her fault. It was fairly well a blur to him, perhaps largely because after Bulma finally finished fuming, they had had sex then and there, in the gravity room. Something about the proximity of their act to where he so often fought and trained gave him chills.

He shook the thought out of his head. "What do you want?" he called, leaning against the button that transmitted his voice to the outside of the door. There was indistinct mumbling from the other side, as if whoever was there either didn't know how to use the apparatus, or else didn't know how to speak. Vegeta cursed quietly, wondering if Bulma's father's cat had started pressing buttons again—but when he finally decided to discern the _ki_ signature of the being outside the metal panels, he raised his eyebrow and opened the door.

"Thank you," the boy bowed a little and then stepped in, only to crumple to the ground. Vegeta grunted and dialed down the gravity, crossing his arms and waiting for the boy to stand up. "M-Mister Vegeta."

"Why are you here, and why isn't my son with you?" he grumbled. Goten had visited the gravity room very occasionally, but always with Trunks. That aside, Vegeta had been expecting his own son to appear at any time—while he had bent to Bulma's will and started allowing the child to sleep in on the weekends, Trunks often joined him of his own volition, if not as early or as eagerly as Vegeta would have liked. Now that his son was in school, Vegeta found that he had to modify his own schedule—he would do his own training in the morning, but wait for Trunks to arrive home from school and enter the gravity room with him again later, unless the boy had such excuses as "homework" or "working on a project" for which Bulma demanded Vegeta give Trunks some time. He and his son didn't spar much—but he liked keeping track of the boy's progress, and got the feeling that Trunks tried harder when he knew Vegeta was watching him.

"He's, uh, he's eating breakfast." The boy bowed again, for good measure and not sure what else to do as Vegeta continued to stand still, completely silent. "Um, I have a question for you, Mister Vegeta." 

"Really."

Goten shivered and nodded. "Uh-huh."

"For me."

"Y-yeah. Trunks said that I should ask you because if I asked Miss Bulma she would get mad at him 'cause he wasn't supposed to tell me." When Vegeta's eyebrow raised, Goten clapped his hands over his mouth and mumbled through them, "Also, I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Oops."

"Well, you're here," Vegeta slowly scaled the gravity up, hoping he could make it just uncomfortable enough for Goten that it would shorten the ordeal. Probably he was going to ask something about something questionable he'd found somewhere in the house. When Goten had been over for dinner just weeks ago, in between bowls of rice he'd held up one of Bulma's bras and asked what it was for, and why it had been left dangling over the towel rack next to the shower. Bulma had glared at Vegeta accusingly—as if he was supposed to pick up after her! 

"Um, Mister Vegeta, did you know my father?"

Vegeta, surprised, could only blink. "Yes."

"Trunks says that I used to have one, and also that he wasn't supposed to tell me but his mom also said that you used to be mad at him all the time." When the man didn't answer, Goten continued, shuffling from foot to foot nervously as the gravity weighed him down much more than he was used to, "How come you didn't like him?" Vegeta opened his mouth, frowning, but before he could make a sound Goten added nervously, "And, um, and where is he now? I wanna see him."

Vegeta growled a little, and turned away, apparently distracted by the console, and Goten was once again comfortable with the gravity. When Vegeta turned back to the boy, he did not answer the question, but marched out of the room. Goten followed on his heels, and was glad to have done so as the doors slid shut right behind him. He trailed behind Vegeta through several hallways and eventually they were back near the main area. The man seemed to survey the area critically before taking a seat on one of the sofas nearby and speaking quietly, "Dead." 

"Huh?"

"Your father is dead."

"Oh," he seemed to mull it over before his eyes lit up. "Gohan says that there's magic dragon balls and that's how this guy who visits sometimes who was dead before but isn't now, 'cause he talks about something about being dead sometimes, you know, and something he learned from some guy, and anyway, Gohan says that that's how come the dead guy is alive, from the magic balls." Taking a deep breath, he plopped down on the couch next to Vegeta, who shifted away uncomfortably as he glanced down at his arms, crossed over his chest. "So we can make my dad not dead anymore, right? And I can have a dad like Trunks does, you know, like you? I think it would make my mom happy 'cause Trunks' mom is happy and I think it's 'cause of how my dad is gone and all that my mom sometimes gets real sad and stuff."

Vegeta opened his mouth again, and Goten added, "'Cause Gohan always says how I look just like him. Like the dad I used to have, I mean." 

"You do."

"Are you mad at me like you were at my dad?"

He paused, still not meeting Goten's eyes as he spoke. "No. But if you keep talking so much—"

"So can we make my dad alive again? Or go to the place where he is and bring him back here maybe without the magic balls?"

"No." His fists clenched a little. He had not been prepared for this—had, in fact, quite successfully put the entire matter of Goku out of his mind for some time. There were the occasional flashes—the periodic outbursts—but that was all. It had taken him six years, but he was finally beginning to feel what he suspected was the thing the others called peace.

"Why not?"

Vegeta breathed slowly, gathering his answer. He'd found that children—or, at least, his own son—held the uncanny ability to know when he was dodging the question, no matter how cleverly he did it. "He refused to be revived with the dragon balls. And there is no other way to remove him from the afterlife."

"Oh." The boy frowned. "That sucks." His eyes darted worriedly to Vegeta, as if the man might be offended by his word choice. "So I'm never gonna have a dad, huh?" 

"You'll never have your father back," Vegeta clarified, and Goten shivered a little at the way his words seemed to be charged with power, the way the air had felt when Trunks had shown him that he could get stronger and have different colored hair and eyes. Of course, that was before he had managed it himself—he wondered if Vegeta was feeling the same way on the inside that he did, when he was just on the edge of the thing his mother and Trunks both called 'Super Saiyajin.'

"You seem kind of mad."

"I am," he grated out.

"I'm kind of mad, too," he admitted, eyes watering. "It's not fair."

"No," Vegeta rumbled, "it's not."

"Um," Goten sniffed, wiping at his eyes, "um, Mister Vegeta?"

"What?" It came out sharper than he meant it to, and even Vegeta himself flinched a bit.

"Um," he ducked down a bit, and before Vegeta could react, slid up underneath the man's arm. When Vegeta started to push him away, Goten muttered, "Just one sec. Okay?" He nuzzled up against the man abruptly, and then, just as suddenly, jumped out from beneath Vegeta's arm and ran off in the direction of the kitchen, stumbling over his own feet a few times and sniffling as he went.

...

Vegeta rolled over and pretended to sleep as Bulma entered the room. After Goten's intensive—if scatterbrained—questioning, he had been embarrassingly incapable of returning to his training, and Trunks had taken his father's unwillingness to go back to the gravity room as a signal that he should try to convince Goten into helping him with some scheme.

As if the boy's resemblance to his father wasn't enough to nag at the corner of Vegeta's mind, the topic that Goten had insisted on discussing had certainly brought Goku front and center. And now, Vegeta felt as if he was stuck in that same rut that kept him from training years back. He heard Bulma meander into the adjoining bathroom and turn on the shower, and decided that there was no better time than now to keep himself from letting that lethargy overtake him again; for what if it disabled him for good this time? Yes, he'd dive beneath the thick layer of protection he'd built from himself, for beneath the helplessness that he was begrudging to acknowledge that he was alone, now, that his chances to defeat Goku were gone—beneath this helplessness that was also sensibleness and an acknowledgment of the truth, he was certain there was rage. It had been put aside when he'd traveled to Namek—put to use when he found out about Goku's ascent, as he fought to ascend himself, but then put toward lesser foes, whose defeat could not mean as much to him—the androids, the cyborgs, Cell. After Cell's defeat he and the other Saiyajin would have finally done battle, but—

"You fucked it up, Kakarrot," he murmured as he walked briskly down the hall. He considered hurrying, lest Bulma catch up to him and start asking what all the fuss was about, but he was certain she would be in the shower for a few more minutes, at least; and then, on finding him in the gravity room, she wouldn't bother him. When he trained like he meant it, she was scared of what she saw, and tended to avoid interrupting him.

It had been—he tried to count, but after a point could not remember—ten, or twelve, or thirteen years that he had spent carefully gathering that boiling anger. The waxy, waterproof coating he built over it was strong, tempered with practice and with layers of things—like his family—things he was beginning to suspect he loved. And that wax, now, was keeping him from hearing the howling from within, and was keeping him subdued; it made the thoughts of the other Saiyajin sobering ones rather than sparks that could rouse his anger as they had once been. It would take only a small puncture of that safety coat for him to feel it, to be invigorated by that which he had systematically, if somewhat accidentally, hidden away since Goku's death.

As if it were a thread of his being he punched the code to get in without thinking; at the main console his fingers knew the buttons that Bulma had tried to keep secret, to protect him from turning the gravity too high. The way his bones and tissues sank closer together was cathartic; he shuddered at the feeling of being pushed until he could hardly stand, enjoying the calm for what it was. He closed his eyes and beneath his lids could see the storm rolling in, and wondered how best to capture its lightning. How could he finally let the dam burst forth? All at once? Ought he try to control it? His hands shook as he imagined that which he had not been able to do for so long, it seemed; was it six years, or ten? How long had it been since he'd released everything and let his power burst forth, unbridled? Vegeta shivered and took in a heady breath of his sweat, all over the room, wondering how it might feel to know that it hadn't leaked from him in vain. He felt his body twitch at the thought: calves, thighs, abdomen, shoulders, eyelids gave in to spasms in succession. Vaguely he wondered whether letting everything out at once would destroy him; wondered if that would be so bad. He glanced down at himself and clenched his teeth, willed himself not to wonder what the hell was wrong with him; willed himself to do and not think.

He released his power—a little, focusing intently on the small burst of the feeling of losing control, a feeling he'd missed. The power of it—of lack of restraint, of sparks tickling up and down his body as it threatened to ascend of its own accord, without his permission—he chuckled a little, and felt a rush of hot blood through his body to accompany the skyrocketing of his confidence; despite his softening around his family, he was no weaker than he had been, surely—

But the thought was a wrench in the churning of his well-slicked system as it awakened from years of rust. He bit past it—of course, they were of no relevance to his power, anyway; and he did not need them in order to fight. The thought returned him to his decades before them, before Earth, the inconvenience and offensiveness of being made to do something for someone else nearly balanced by the fact that he would have been doing the same thing anyway, given the choice; carrying out that which his people had done for as long as their history recalled. The Earthlings thought of the rainbow as a thing of beauty; and so did he—but for him it was that it contained each hue of the innards of the things he'd killed, of the rubble of inconvenient planets, of his bruises after a hard-won fight. His breath rattled a bit at the thought—for how long had he been deprived of such a thing, of a hard-won fight? The very act of imagining one was pleasing in a way that his time on Earth had taught him not to admit. Yet even as his bitter sentiments of the humans stung his throat, he knew that Bulma would understand—she always understood; and if she didn't, she pretended, and did so proficiently. Quivering as abstractions of battle grasped his consciousness, Vegeta succumbed to the odd association that was always a hazy line away for a Saiyajin, and a less visible line for one deprived of the right to fight and kill as he pleased. With more fighting, it would go away—but that would never happen, would it? So he bit his lip and let his fingers meander downward so that he could satisfy his bloodlust in the only other way he could think to; and it was tried and true, and he remembered why this was the case as the psychological static built when he touched his own skin, farther and farther and farther down.

He closed his eyes and the thunderstorm was wild as it approached, and in haste he grabbed at what he would not have imagined to have become so aroused so quickly, wondering vaguely why there was ever a line drawn there, when the same adrenaline rushed through him either way, and his hand was shaky at the magnitude of it—that he could somehow equate this to what he so desperately wanted, that some recess of his mind urged him to it. His grip grew surer and he felt the pulse of blood beneath his palm and fingers, and Vegeta's other arm supported him as he leaned back into the console, dialing the gravity up as his blood shot through him in ways he'd hardly remembered, the gravity challenging him as it dared to pull him from the trajectory of the darts of pleasure he was feeling. Just as he was certain that the ability to breathe had escaped him, his mind reeled with his body and he collapsed against the console at the rapid change in gravity.

Bulma stood at the door, arms crossed over her loosely tied robe. "What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded before he was even sure his lungs hadn't collapsed on him, or that his eyes hadn't burst at the depressurization. Before he could draw enough air into himself to answer, she had crossed the room and was staring him down—the nudity he'd left their room in, and everything on his mind plain for her to see. "What's going on?" she stepped closer, threatening to brush against that of him which projected forward the most.

"Don't do that," he managed. "Don't change the gravity like that." His body shook.

"Did you notice that you were turning it up?" this time she stepped forward, apparently oblivious to her positioning as his hardness prodded into her loosely covered stomach. "I think you would have blown up the entire compound without even realizing it!"

As the dizziness in his eyes and chest abated, it was replaced by resuming excitement, inexplicable besides that perhaps it had carried over from before the interruption. "Maybe so," he smirked, with the distinct feeling that there was a dizziness beyond the physical one he'd felt which had yet to leave him entirely.

"Don't you _start _with that," she shoved him, and her hands lingered on his chest. "I don't fall for the bad boy act when it could've meant my life!"

"I disagree," he leaned closer to her, taking her arms from his chest and holding her by the forearms.

"What's going on, Vegeta?" she fought against his grip, hoping that he would release her of his own will, since there was no way for her to remove herself otherwise. "Something is seriously wrong, here." She narrowed her eyes. "Why did you come over to this room?" After a calculated pause, she added, "Is masturbating that much better in high gravity?"

Having the words to go with it caused him to flush a little, and his grip on her forearms lessened, allowing her to pull herself free. "I wasn't...exactly..." but he trailed off weakly as she nudged up against him again, this time untying her robe so that his erection touched her skin.

"Really?" she raised an eyebrow, speaking dubiously as her actions proved her point, but gauged his embarrassment with the usual accuracy and abated, leaning into him more gingerly as she slipped the robe the rest of the way off. "Anything I can do to help you?" 

"I want to fight," he choked out, and her alluring smile fell. "But I can't," he continued, as if this pained him, "so—"

"Same old thing, huh?" she breathed. "It's Goku again, isn't it?" He growled, and she shrugged it off.

"Bulma," they were suddenly against a wall, and he held her up against it by her waist. Her head jerked forward as the motion caught up with her. "I want to..."

Bulma's mind spun with thoughts, with trying to catch up on what he possibly could have been thinking in the few minutes he was away from her while she showered—what he seemed to be thinking now, still, and saw in him the same hopeless desperation that had plagued him years ago—angrier, now. With the way he hoisted her up so that she was pinned against the wall a good head above him, nipping at the undersides of her breasts, she was sure he wanted to have sex with her—but couldn't quite put her finger on the oddness of this occurrence, the feeling that he had initiated it with some sentiment other than the usual. The last time they had done it in here, the aftermath was mildly unpleasant—but he'd seemed to like it. She supposed he didn't share her feeling of disgust at having been in full contact with a floor that wreaked of sweat and of feet; must have been used to it. But she was in no position to complain then, just, as it seemed, that she wasn't now, as his mouth trailed lower.

Slight warmth against her wrists and ankles forced her eyes to snap open, and Vegeta's hands were no longer on her waist as they gripped lightly around her legs; she was being fastened to the wall by four glowing rings. "Vegeta," she demanded with a single word, and he smirked a little—guiltily, and she wondered if he'd had this odd ring technique up his sleeve for a while now, waiting to shackle her in a place of his choosing.

"What?"

"What's going on?"

"Ssh," he insisted, pressing one finger into her lips, and chuckling as his nose brushed against her freshly trimmed hair.

"Vegeta," she persisted, if more weakly.

"What makes you think something is 'going on'?" he asked so quietly that Bulma wondered if the message had traveled up her spine into her head.

"I don't know," she snapped sarcastically, though it came out less a snap than she'd intended, "something about you jacking off in a thousand times Earth's gravity clued me in, somehow." Her expression darkened. "I know I built this thing to go that high, but there's a _reason_ I kept the function locked." His eyes finally met hers. "I'm serious when I say the whole compound could have blown up."

"I was...trying to..." 

"How many lives is a good fight worth to you?" she bit. Her eyes widened. "And not even a real fight. You were just imagining you could fight a dead man."

"It's..."

"Weren't you?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "He's dead, Vegeta. You want to go blow something up? The capsule for the spaceship is in our top dresser drawer." His eyes widened. "Yeah. You want a good fight? Don't just start using me as a substitute," she motioned to the rings with her chin. "Got it?"

He swallowed, bringing himself to his feet. How did she always know?

"If you've got somewhere better to go, then scram. It's abundantly clear to me now that you don't give a damn about Trunks and I!"

"No," he stepped closer, and Bulma was left frozen in place by the rings as he leaned his head against the side of hers, wrapping his arms around her as her back arched toward him to accommodate their presence behind her. "That's not true."

"That so?" she whispered, feeling the rings disappear and quickly wrapping her arms around him for support.

"It is so," he kissed her shoulder, and mumbled even more softly, "it is very much so." Vegeta guided her to the ground. This wasn't the first time he'd admitted such things to her—nor the first time he'd been this gentle—but still, somehow, it seemed he would be stripped of something if he saw her eyes shine in response to the statement, so he kept his eyes closed. He felt a nudge against his shoulder and complied with its force, letting his shoulder roll back until it touched the floor. Against his back the surface was cold, and the shock of the feeling snapped his eyes open to find Bulma kneeling above him, her hands resting on either side of his arms as she leaned down to look at him.

"Are you okay?" she leaned down to kiss him, lips landing just above his eyebrow, and Vegeta shivered.

"I think I will be," he breathed. "I think I'll be okay."

"I'll make sure of it," she giggled, pressing her lips into his before leaning down to his ear to whisper, "think we can have sex in here without you just off and thinking of fighting?"

"If anyone could distract me from fighting," he grabbed her by the hips and prepared to flip her over, "it's you."

"Not so fast," she resisted his motion, and he paused. Bulma stuck her tongue out. "If we're doing it in here, there is no _way_ I'm getting the crap on that awful grimy floor all over my back."

"As you please," he smirked a little, returning to his position beneath her.

"Damn straight," she grinned, lowering herself to press against his skin. Vegeta's eyes drifted shut at the comfort of it, of Bulma's presence and of her touch, and the liveliness of spirit that she and her son shared; at her persistence at what she wanted. He smirked a little, and could distantly hear teasing accusations from Bulma that he was off in his own world.

And he was—and he knew it. He was in his own world, now. This was his world.

The thunderstorm rolled closer, but he would wait until it arrived—to decide whether to tame it or let it take him. At this moment, his attention was stolen away to other places, to the lips of the woman who was constantly saving him from whatever that thunderstorm contained.


End file.
